


Office Saints

by cobbvanth



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Arguing, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, Mutual Pining, PWP, Praise Kink, Yearning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29258091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobbvanth/pseuds/cobbvanth
Summary: Javier is used to getting what he wants when it involves the sweet and quiet receptionist. What happens once she says no?
Relationships: Javier Pena x Reader, Javier Peña & Reader, Javier Peña & You, Javier Peña x You, Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	Office Saints

Javier can’t really believe what he’s doing. 

Well he can but it’s one of those things, right? One of those situations where he can sort of get it - understands it on some primal level - but the articulation of it is hard, the explanation caught somewhere below his tonsils tucked away on the back of his tongue. 

An explanation that could _explain_ ….with a broad gesture and some finesse and something else that he’ll pull out of his ass like he always does that somehow almost always works out in his favor…. _all of this._

All of this meaning the sweet heat of your breath against his neck as it’s huffed out of your lungs in strung-out psalms, mewling his praises in a quiet voice because neither of you can afford to get caught, the feel of your words setting his skin on fire erupting it into goosebumps dark with a days worth of stubble. 

Something that might also explain the dig of his belt buckle against his stomach where you’ve got it pressed into the muscle just below and to the left of his belly button desperate to be close to him, soft and delicate hands fisted into the back of his dark blue suit jacket, keeping him from going anywhere except forward. Desperate needy little movements that set his teeth on edge and make him feel guilty - the feel of his remorse pooling somewhere behind his eyes, dripping into his sinuses. He likes the sting of the metal though, aware it parallels the way it must be for you when he pushes all of your hair away from your face then collects it with his fist and pulls. 

And you smile at him from down the bridge of your nose, lips shiny with spit and residues of your lip gloss. Crooked. Devious. 

You’re more than he bargained for, more than he anticipated by a fucking long-shot. 

A quiet receptionist diligent with her work occasionally doing him favors when his dick gets him into hot water by making promises he knows he’ll have trouble keeping. Promises of visas and immunity and safety. Legal bureaucratic incentives used since the dawn of the modern American government that work far more efficiently and effectively than he ever could dream of at getting people like seasoned communist guerrillas or scared twenty something year old prostitutes to relay the information he needs despite the surmounting evidence that they should stay as far away from United State government officials as possible.

A mouse of a girl who looks the other way while giving him the documents he needs with all the required signatures, filing the paperwork under divisions that might be - just maybe - slightly illegal because of the Constitution or whatever, who is now crying into the shell of his ear needy and wanting. 

And it’s so entirely fucked up that for just a second he nearly pulls back and away before he can fuck you up in a way that matters. Away, far away, before you end up snot nosed and bleeding and devastated because he got you into shit you would have otherwise been worlds away from. 

He grits and hisses through his teeth, shooing the thoughts away before they become action, thinking instead of the way the doorknob to your office had clicked. 

-

“No.” 

He’s barely half-way inside the room and you’re already protesting, cursed with the knowledge gained from months of experience that he isn’t here just to say hello and isn’t just passing by either. Isn’t about to mind his own business. Or rather he’s about to force you out of minding your own. And normally it wouldn’t bother you. You’ve got a soft spot for him like an aching cavity and you honestly enjoy seeing him but these meetings have their consequences - consequences that make it hard to do your job because you’ve developed this subconscious urge to smile every time the door opens that makes everyone think you’re a pushover and this stupid, idiotic work crush on him that’s now causing you to dread every time he seeks you out because you _know_ its about keeping one of his exploits safe and not at all about you. 

And you get it. You do. These women haven’t done anything to you and have helped the DEA immensely with their information. Never the star. Always the asteroid. 

You’d just rather not know anymore that he’s fucking them. 

“No, Javi. Go find someone else.” You dismiss him, returning to your filing. You’ve got mountains of paperwork to get organized and even if you had wanted to listen to him preach about protecting the innocent, you don’t have the time. Most of the stuff on your desk needs to be processed by the end of the work day and with interruptions like this you’re looking at a long night. 

“I haven’t said what I’m here for.” He volleys back, closing the door softly behind him. 

You give him an unamused look as you turn in your chair, tucking a stack of papers away into the filing cabinet next to your desk. “You don’t have to. I know that look on your face.”

“What look on my face?” He’s getting irritated now, tapping his fingers against his belt. Whatever he wants, he must want it in a hurry. That’s too bad. You refuse to be a cinch for any longer. 

“That look! You want something, but you’re trying to be like, shy about it because you know I do you too many favors.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, honey.” He denies and you desperately ignore the way your heart flutters at the endearment by stifling it with bitter jealousy. He isn’t being sincere and you’re not convinced. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about and even if you didn’t, that doesn’t change the fact that the only reason you ever come in here is because your ass is to the flame.”

You sit up and go to grab something else, hoping that by keeping your hands busy and your mind occupied that it’ll ease how bad you feel having to tell him no despite being entirely justified in your refusal. You like him so much more than you should that at this point it isn’t even logical. Your conversations, as frequent as they seem to happen, are most of the time fruitless in their significance aside from the very serious shit he’s constantly having you do. It’s normal chatter. Those observations that get made fun of by people not forced by societal standards to fill what would otherwise be awkward silence. Nice weather we’re having (neither of you have actually said this but you might as well have). How’s your family? You got a new coffee mug. It’s nice. Nothing actually detrimental in breaking through his veneer. So far you know as little as that he’s seeing multiple women - none of them you - and that he prefers blue ink ballpoint pens to the cheap plastic ones the embassy provides. 

You look up at him when he doesn’t leave, then start to fiddle with the cup of pencils and highlighters to your right. You wish that he wouldn’t do this. 

“Come on,” he speaks a little lower leaning against your desk, impeding on your ability to fuss with the writing utensils. He braces his palms flat on its surface so that his face is close to yours, brown eyes pleading. A ploy you know. You’re both eased by it and bristled. “They’re gonna kill her if she stays. I promised her protection.”

He smells good. And he looks good, too. He must have had some sort of meeting today otherwise he typically isn’t dressed this nice. You hate that you’ve even noticed. Still, you persist. 

“You shouldn’t be making promises you can’t keep then, Javi.” Getting to your feet, you round the corner and go to escort him out of your office. 

Javier rises to his full height at your approach and rubs at his mouth. He isn’t sure exactly what’s changed but you’re never this hostile, never this difficult to persuade. He isn’t used to having to convince you like this and has come unprepared to argue. 

Then you’re in front of him, in front of your desk to be more precise, reaching for him to push him out by his shoulders and he sees his opportunity. You’re a cute thing. Cute and overqualified with a fucking masters degree burning a hole in the hall behind you and far more patient than he deserves. And yet he’s done everything he’s capable of to avoid fully confronting what he disguises behind blanket terms like ‘coworker’ and ‘friend’ to keep from fully acknowledging how he actually feels because then that means he actually likes you and not in a way that would make him feel brave enough to come in here asking too much of you like he has since you arrived at the embassy. It certainly wouldn’t clear his conscience, or at least void it temporarily of his guilt. 

There’s no time to think about that though, not with Elisa’s life at stake, and you think you can see the wheels turning in his head as he’s leaning down again, this time so much closer that you physically have to resist the urge to move back - stuck in this paralyzing limbo of enjoying the idea of being near enough to kiss him if you wanted to and hating it immensely, pinched between the hardwood edge of your rolltop and his body. 

“What are you doing?” You supremely don’t like the airy and stuttered characteristic your voice has taken on, but there’s not much you can do to control it when he’s literally inches away from being where you’ve wanted him to be for months. 

Wishing you were home right now seems like the wisest choice instead of focusing with sharpening precision on the soft pout of his lips. Or the pitifully handsome aquiline curve of his nose. Or how deep a brown his eyes are. It’s a Friday. You could be starting your weekend by going home to blare Tracy Chapman as loud as you can without getting a noise complaint while eating frozen pizza and stress baking your pathetic yearning into some painfully mediocre brownies. Or you could spend the evening hitting your head against the wall. It doesn’t matter. You have no preference. You’d rather be doing anything anywhere else rather than what you’re doing now - standing here petrified like he’s a fast approaching car. 

“Can I take you to dinner?” 

_What?_ “Huh?” 

“I know that I can be a pain in the ass, but I want you to know that I appreciate you fixing my fuck-ups. And I mean it. I’m not-”

“Javier…” You warn because he seems to be unable to see how dangerous the territory he’s treading in right now is on the verge of becoming. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

At any moment the two of you could be caught and you’re doubtful he’d be the one being put on suspension or losing his job. You also don’t particularly like the way this is happening - like he’s cashing in on your feelings for him to use them to his advantage. You won’t show it now and hope desperately that you aren’t that transparent, but it does hurt your feelings. You want him to like you because he likes you, not because he likes what you can do for him. 

“It wouldn’t be-” 

God, he really doesn’t get it does he. Or maybe he does and he’s being purposefully obtuse about it. Either way it’s frustrating the hell out of you. 

“No, it wouldn’t be whatever you think it would be! You’re untouchable here, Javier. Even if it might not look that way, and I’m not! You know what would happen if I agreed and anyone else God forbid found out? I’d be accused of using you and not the other way around. I’d be the office slut. The secretary you burned through. They’d wonder what you saw in me. There’d be betting pools. Sly comments. All while you continue being the fucking rockstar that sleeps with anyone he wants and continues to catch the bad guys.” 

You outburst, although not unwarranted, makes you flush with embarrassment anyway. 

“I am so tired of looking at you and hoping that someday you’d look the same way back. And I am sick of being treated like I exist to help appease your conscience.” 

Javier glances uneasily out through the frosted rectangular window into the hallway. It’s probably a subconscious tick - you figure he gets yelled at often enough for his behavior that checking to see if anyone else has heard has become a force of habit, but it makes you scoff anyway, misinterpreting the movement to be purely out of self interest and not for what he’s about to do next. 

“Let me make it up to you.” He begins and you inhale as if about to speak again so he raises his hands in a placating motion. “Wait, listen before you get mad again. No dinner. Nothing like that. Your sister just had her baby, right? I remember you said you don’t have the sick days to visit, but I can pull a few strings and get them for you.” His way of apologizing. You’d be offended it isn’t outright if you didn’t know him any better. 

“In exchange for what? The visa paperwork?” The bitterness in your voice isn’t as severe as you would like it to be. You’re surprised he had even bothered listening when you had told him that. Your nephew is already four weeks old. The pictures she and her husband mail you are nice and you enjoy the phone conversations you have with them, but they don’t compare to the real thing. You miss your family and he knows it. He misses his too. 

“No, uh.” He scratches his eyebrow. “You don’t have to do anything. I want to do this for you.” After all the shit he’s pulled you into and having made you pretty much an accomplice to his morally and legally ambiguous behavior, the least he could do is give you a break from it. From him, that is. 

Your demeanor softens. “You’d really do that?” 

“To help you? Of course I would.” Javier murmurs, serious and sincere enough that you actually believe him. 

You’re hugging him before you can think the better of it. “Thank you, Javi…” 

He’s slow to react. Obviously his surprise is a natural response. You catch your error quickly, mortified that after such a fight you put up that you’d do something like hug him for something as provincial as a decent act of human kindness when really he should be at your feet, but before you can pull away he’s hugging you back. He’s warm, too. And his shirt is softer than it looks like it would feel. Putting your mental self-beration on pause, you savor the feel of it hoping he doesn’t realize how your face burns. 

“Yeah,” He smiles just a little over your shoulder and you can picture the dimple hidden on his right cheek. “But uh don’t thank me yet. With the shit coming the embassy’s way I can’t…” 

All hands on deck. That means you too. He can’t guarantee anything. 

“Right, sure.” You quickly agree as you pull back but not away. Something, an irritatingly stupid something that’ll in all likelihood end up betraying you later, keeps you from retreating. “Still, though. I appreciate it.” 

The next few moments are hung in tense suspension. 

The silence isn’t uncomfortable. The strain isn’t about to be relieved by incurious posturing. Your cowardice around him might be stronger than it is around anyone else, but you aren’t about to let it ruin the frailty of whatever this is by backing down now with a stupid question. It weighs heavy and thick and pressing, the result of nearly four months of amassing unresolved tension and unspoken longing culminating into a thin sliver spreading in a piece of broken glass or ice the moment before it shatters. 

So much as a stuttered inhale would be enough to break it. 

It starts tentative and shy. Javier looks at you and there’s something about his eyes or his expression or his aggravatingly attractive habit of biting the inside of his bottom lip that makes your body suffuse with a slow and meticulous heat and suddenly you’re reminded of what it feels like to drink something hot. A trip to your grandmother’s, snow on your eyelashes. A sort of whole bloodstream warmth that seeps. A familiarity you haven’t felt since moving down to Colombia because the days are scorching and yeah it gets cold outside at night especially in Bogota and more than once you’ve gone sprinting through the parking lot because you forgot your coat but not winter cold - not the kind of cold that melts. 

It makes you want to pause, to retrace your steps, to figure out what exactly happened that took you from contentiously trying to kick him out to staring up into his face and thinking you’d let him do whatever he wanted even if that meant break your heart. 

Except the last moment isn’t long enough for your thoughts to properly stabilize, so as he leans forward the details of everything else just seem to blur, becoming unimportant and inconsequential and you’ll think about it later when this is over that thank god he had the presence of mind to reach over and twist the window blinds shut and that - 

And _that_ \- 

He’s kissing you. His eyes close and in the millisecond you’re given before you must close your own too in order not to make this weird, you map out the shadow of stubble along his jawline, his crows feet, and you’ve never noticed it before but there’s a small scar on his top lip hidden by his mustache that can only be seen from this close and until he’s actually touching you and dragging your thoughts elsewhere it’s all you can wonder about and focus on. This man that is so intensely human and flawed and complicated and tragic that all of it comes together to nearly make him unreal. 

_He’s kissing you_ and whatever conclusions you are about to make about his misadventures with a set of stairs or the edge of a coffee table or something more scary and serious are flooded by the focused deliberation of his movements. A slow and sure intensity to him that makes your stomach clench around something balmy and good. You’re not in the habit of imagining what kissing someone might be like because most of the time your expectations end up disappointing you, but you had indulged for him, as frighteningly compromising as that is to think about. So you’re pleasantly surprised that it’s everything you’ve imagined and more. 

Javier pulls back maybe half an inch to an inch and you wonder what he’s doing and if he knows what he’s doing since neither of you seem to care enough anymore to stop. Just minutes ago you had been warning him about a theoretical dinner and now he’s literally like centimeters away from you, definitely close enough to qualify as invading your space, in a very public and very populous government building that people waltz in and out of, so just because you’ve stopped considering the consequences doesn’t mean you’re free from them. Your proximity to him is precarious enough to explain away without having someone else walk in. 

But then he’s locking the door. 

“You okay with this?” 

Shit, are you? Yeah - you think dumbly. I am. 

You nod. 

“Yeah?” He sounds pleased, like he’s trying to hide a smile but he hesitates and looks at you, bracing himself for a reason you haven’t figured out yet that might be because he’s going back on all the stupid mantras he’s repeated in his head since meeting you that he _would not_ _ruin_ you like he seems to destroy everyone else. He exhales. He licks his lips and your eyes glance to the flash pink of his tongue as he tilts his head forward again and you should really, really be working on paperwork right now but god if this isn’t so much better. 

Javier’s mouth is descending over yours again as soft and slow as the first time as he backs you up against your desk until you’re forced to climb onto it. Normally, not that this has ever happened like ever, the way this is definitely going to mess up your neat and well manicured desk would annoy you beyond measure because this building is chaotic and most of the time so are the people in it so you need a space that is clean and undisruptive, yet you’ll make an exception for him just this once. It isn’t even something you’re thinking about, not with the way he’s tipping your head back and coaxing your mouth open and runs his tongue over your teeth - tasting like the coffee he had been drinking and the breath mint he had half an hour ago and perhaps, alarmingly, like tequila and you wonder distantly if he’s had anything to drink. 

Doesn’t matter. Every rational thought you’ve ever had could be chalked up to hearsay with how much you just don’t care anymore. 

He curls an arm around your waist and whispers something fervent and jumbled against your lips that might have been a string of curse words or a confession or something equally as scorching. You want to lean away and ask him what it was, but you can’t with the way he’s kissing you now - hard and a bit clumsy, groaning into your mouth when you wrap your legs around his waist. The sound reverberates through your chest and you’re suddenly aware that he’s lifting your skirt and that his hands are calloused. You had suspected they would be. Most of the agent’s hands are from weapons practice. You just hadn’t expected you’d ever know what it feels like to be touched by someone who has them. 

His right thumb, more specifically, has one and it drags along the inside of your left thigh in a way that has you physically jolting. It’s disconcertingly erotic and you shouldn’t like it for obvious reasons, but you want him to do it again so badly that you nearly close your legs just to make him restart. 

You don’t, for obvious reasons. 

Javier gets the fabric around your waist before you have the presence of mind to work on him. His belt is harder to deal with than you’d like with how badly your hands are shaking. Of all the days for this to happen it’s the day he’s wearing one and not any of the others where he’s wearing those fucking jeans that look tailored perfectly for him, but you manage just fine. The button is easier, and so is his zipper, and soon you’re moving on to his dress shirt. He always has the first two undone so the process isn’t as demanding on your frazzled synapses and you think that he chuckles when your hands - greedy and explorative - travel along the expanse of it you’ve just revealed. 

“Still okay?” 

“Keep asking me that and I won’t be.” 

It’s his turn to want to ask. He thinks the better of it, though. A conversation for another time, if either of you decide to talk about this. Historically, denial has worked out for him in the short term, has prevented many uncomfortable encounters, and by the time it got to the long term, the other person either wanted nothing to do with him anymore or he wanted nothing to do with them. This isn’t one of those situations. He’ll figure it out later. 

Javier finds your underwear. He doesn’t tug them off. Instead he tugs them to the side and you grind your hips into his hand, impatient. He takes mercy on you, steps closer and pulls himself out of his dress pants and somewhere there’s a flicker of recognition that he shouldn’t get them dirty but its snuffed out quickly as the head of his cock brushes your clit, and then he’s slanting his lips over yours and pushing his hips forward, closer - 

You both still and try to find your breath. You fist his jacket between your fingers and shudder and he gasps out an _oh_ that has your belly constricting and all of it feels so inevitable that you can’t believe this hasn’t happened until now. 

Then he _rocks._

Twice. Then a third time. And you grind down until the irregular rhythm you’re trying to escape morphs into a gentle swaying. 

You’re not going to last long like this. You weren’t in the first place, but you’re already so wound up from having fought him and then having this happen that it’s close to shameful how full and stretched and good you feel. You roll your hips, feel the muscles in your thighs tense and tighten and the ache in your abdomen intensify, and it earns you gruttle praise. Yeah, sweetheart. Just like that. 

His belt buckle is starting to dig into your stomach too and it hurts and it must be hurting him too but he still keeps talking, words slurred and heavy against the shell of your ear, and you duck your head and press your face into his shoulder to keep him from seeing how beggared you are for his affection and the heat settling in your skin is bordering on overwhelming now especially with the way his breath swirls down your neck and God - if he’d only just - 

He does. He shifts and the angle changes and _oh yes please just like that_ and he’s brushing something inside of you that makes you gasp and tremble and clutch even more perilously at his shoulders, the slide of your bodies filthy and obscene on its own yet made tenfold by your location. 

Javier doesn’t stop moving. No, harder and faster and deeper and it’s encompassing then all encompassing then _everything_ and he only has to swipe your clit once to have you choking on his name. 

He stutters, falters, would be embarrassed too but is so far from caring that the only thing he’s concerned with right now is if you regret this. 

The phone rings. 

You jump so badly that it makes him hiss. “Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry. _Shit._ ” 

You reach over and grab the box of tissues on your desk and hand them to him. 

Carefully, cautiously, he pulls away from you, then tucks himself back into his pants and with a speed that would be impressive if your heart weren’t in your throat, you readjust your clothing and go to reach for the landline, looking down at the number. 

“I have to answer this.” 

Javier nods. “Answer it. I’ll uh…” Jesus, this fucking belt. “We’ll talk later.” 

You two stare at each other for a moment. The phone keeps ringing. 

“Yeah. Yeah, if you’re not busy.” 

“Yeah…” 

You smile automatically but it doesn’t reach your eyes, then pick up the receiver and watch his back as he retreats into the hallway.


End file.
